The Manifestation of my Worst Fear

People screw up and screw around: it’s a fact. Sometimes the consequence of that screwing is a baby. Some people consciously make the opportunity to screw up with as many other people as they can.

Oh let me stop talking in circles. People need to be more selective with (and committed to) whom they get naked with because we have a slew of little bastards running around in our neighborhoods across America. There. I said it. I used the word “bastard”.

Part of my grief when Nadjah was born was that she was indeed a bastard, by Webster’s definition of the term. She was born out of wedlock, and her father had no present or future intentions toward me. The latter part of that problem was not a concern for me, as my father had already warned me that “Black American men don’t take care of their kids and I would have to raise her on my own.” It’s a broad statement, and unfair to those Black men who DO take care of their kids, but fair in the face of the reality that 77% of all Black children born today will grow up without a father.

I have always wanted Nadjah to have some awareness of who her biological father was, not for his sake, but for hers. I could care less what level of involvement he played, as he had (and has) consistently proven to be useless in the realm of anything remotely resembling responsibility, but I needed her to know what role his past actions might play in a possible life event in her future: The meeting of her half-brother.

Douche Bag has a son (whom he has gone from searching for to now denying is even his) who is 3 or 4 year’s Nadjah’s senior. The last I heard of him, he was in Boston. I’ve only seen infant pictures of him. Douche Bag can now make whatever claims he wants about who fathered that boy, but pictures don’t lie. Tyler (I think his name is) is the spitting image of DB. His luxury being a man is that he has the choice to deny siring this boy – his mother, who birthed him, does not. For this, I abhor him all the more.

In my nightmares, she leaves home, goes off to college – maybe Harvard – and meets a handsome young man that she feels strangely ‘connected’ to, brings him home to meet the family, and falls in love only for us to discover through some horrible event (like, I dunno, the birth of a child with severe defects) that the man she’s married to and in love with is her BROTHER.

I heard the worst story this week. It happened to a friend of a friend, and only because the adults in her life were too scared/proud/stupid to admit that they were whores in their youth. Fortunately, I’m far too candid and not that dumb to allow my daughter to experience the trauma I’m about to tell you about.

***

Susan grew up in a small town in South Georgia that was extremely close knit. Everyone went to the same elementary and high school. Everyone’s parents worked similar jobs. It was not uncommon for whole extended families to live on the same street.

When Susan was 17, she started dating Greg, who was a boy in her class. Greg and Susan’s mothers did not get along, and never have as long as anyone could remember. Susan didn’t care. She and Greg continued their relationship. Susan’s mother objected vehemently.

“You have to break up with that boy,” she snarled. “His family is no good.”

After much protesting, Susan finally gave up and promised not to see him again.

“Alright, Momma.”

As any mother knows, if her daughter says “alright”, her mouth is saying one thing, but her body is preparing to do another. That being said, Susan continued to see Greg secretly. A few weeks later, she found out she was pregnant.

Her mother was livid, and insisted that she have an abortion. Susan wept, and begged her mother to let her keep her baby. Her mother shoved her into the car, and on the way there dropped a bombshell on her:

“You can’t keep that baby,” she said stonily. “Me and Greg’s dad used to mess around together. That’s why his momma and me hate each other so much. Greg is your brother.”

Susan didn’t say another word. She had the abortion and hasn’t been right since.

*****

How could she be right? She just found out her baby was not only her son, but her nephew as well!

What’s the lesson here? Surely you don’t need ME to tell you. It’s plain as the erection you need to keep in your pants or cover with a prophylactic.